Chapter Two:

Chapter Nine: Ves

Light, tinted red from the drapes crossed the floor to Caerleon’s boots, crossed in front of her as she sat before the fire. She was back in her Prince clothing. Caerla things had been hidden in her room. She had decided the night before that Caerla had seen the last of the palace. It was getting too feral around here—too helter-skelter. Someone had to die, and it was best if it was someone who didn’t really exist. Leona and Caerla. Both dead. All that was left was Caerleon; incomplete and half-dead herself. She stared into the firelight with her hands in front of her face, her back curled into the armchair. From the other room, she heard a groan as Jareth awoke. Quickly, she rose up, happy to pull herself from her unpleasant reverie.

Jareth was splayed out on the Prince’s bed; he looked around dazed and exhausted before he noticed the Prince standing in the doorway, arms crossed and face severe as always.

Jareth searched the room again, then sat up all the way, his shirt was loose over his shoulders, the muscles tensed when he saw the Prince, “Am I… in your chambers?”

“Yes,” said Caerleon trying to look cross.

Jareth continued to sweep the room. He seemed to freeze as he came to the realization that he was lying in the Prince’s bed. Slowly, he rose up from the disheveled sheets and slid over the edge, nearly falling under his own weight as the pain in his head exploded.

“Wait! Here…” Caerleon rushed to help him stand up again, and then sat him down gently on the edge of the bed, “You came in here last night… drunk, with a girl. You seemed to think this was your room.”

“A girl?” he looked confused and then his face became stricken, “Lorinda’s friend! I didn’t… did I stay here all night? Was she—did we?” he was babbling and holding his head in his hands.

Caerleon sighed and continued with her story, “She was a little worse for wear… I had a servant escort her to her own chambers. You passed out almost immediately after you showed up.”

“You let me stay in your bed? All night?”

Caerleon shrugged, “I do not sleep much.”

“Your Majesty… I’m so… I’m sorry, I’m so ashamed-”

Caerleon thought about something reassuring to say but decided against it because it seemed too feminine. “It’s nearly noon.”

“I can’t believe…” Jareth groaned, and rubbed his palms over his pounding head. “I don’t know what to say about any of this… It’s disgrace.”

“You probably shouldn’t drink so much.”

“I don’t!” Jareth said suddenly looking up at her with bloodshot blue eyes, “This is why… I don’t hold it well.”

“No,” Caerleon agreed, “But no harm was done.”

“Caerla—was she? Is she alright? Did it seem like…”

“She was fine.”

“I’m so sorry,” he said again. The ruddy colouring of his face seemed to deepen, “I should leave you… I should go.” He started to stand up, then he groaned again and made to fall back down. He caught himself and straightened up.

Caerleon furrowed her brow, “What’s wrong? Are you injured?” she hadn’t noticed anything wrong with him last night.

“No,” said Jareth quickly, “I’m just… sore.” He straightened up, but the effort involved look painful.

Caerleon glared at him in disapproval. She recognized this very well, as she had done it herself on many occasions. There was a stoic look in his eyes that said he was in a lot of pain but planning to hide it, even if—or perhaps especially—if someone present could help relieve that pain. It was a man thing. The Prince marched around to Jareth’s side until she was behind him. He turned—trying to keep contact with her eyes, but she stepped close enough to force him around so she could look at his back. He sighed and Caerleon nearly gasped.

She hadn’t been able to tell before, because he was wearing a thick black overcoat, but now that that was removed (on the floor somewhere) she could make out the lines through the thin cotton shirt he wore underneath. His back was a grate of scars from the whips. It had been weeks since his overnight stay in the palace dungeons but he was not healing properly…

“Jareth,” said Caerleon reprovingly, “Sit down,” she spoke so firmly that he didn’t dare disobey her.

“What are you doing?” Jareth demanded as she wretched the shirt up and began to carefully peal the cloth away from his battered flesh.

“These are infected…” she grumbled, “Help me,” she added sharply.

Jareth took his shirt off all the way, though the effort of just moving his arms upward seemed to make the pain much worse than before. The flesh on his back was a disgusting sight. Caerleon felt a stab of guilt when she remembered that this was essentially her doing in the first place. The bloody lines crisscrossed diagonally from the top of his neck and down to his hips, in geometrically perfect looking diamonds. Some of them looked like they had at least healed over, but quite a few were oozing blood or puss. “How, have you being walking around like this?” demanded the Prince.

“Does it look that bad?”

“Does it feel as bad as it looks?!”

“…I’ve been taking Bracer for the pain.” The potion he named was well known for numbing pain very effectively—and occasionally making small children see dead fish and rainbows floating in the air.

“That won’t heal you,” the Prince promised, “Stay here,” she climbed down from the bed and crossed the room to the cabinet where Marguerite had moved the majority of her face-painting supplies. Caerleon stood in front of it to obscure the contents, while she searched for the right potion. She revealed a small bottle filled with a thick, sticky white sap. She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and took a small sewing kit as well, after a moment’s deliberation.

Jareth waited, watching the Prince curiously, though every few minutes he had to hide his face in his hands—whether we was overwhelmed from embarrassment or his headache was hard to tell. The Prince took her place behind him again and poured a dab of the potion onto the cloth. She knew for a fact that the immediate reaction of the potion on broken skin was excruciating, but Jareth hid his pain fairly well.

“Why didn’t you see a physician about this?” muttered Caerleon as she smeared another glob of the potion on to his wounds.

Jareth flinched a bit down hard, taking a moment to collect himself before he answered, “I didn’t think it was… I thought it just needed time to heal.”

Caerleon sighed inwardly and remembered what Jareth had said the night before about thinking not being a particularly strong virtue in his character.

“You’re Majesty I’m so sor-”

“If you apologize one more time I’ll have you executed.” Caerleon snapped.

“but I am-”

“-Jareth, what did I just say?”

“Right but… it’s a disgrace-”

“-I wasn’t going to be sleeping here tonight, someone might as well get some use out of this bed, it’s quite magnificent.” Caerleon spoke lightly, trying to encourage Jareth to drop the matter.

“…Why haven’t you been sleeping? If I might ask?”

Caerleon frowned, she hadn’t been expecting Jareth to actually speak with her—and she especially hadn’t been expecting him to inquire about something so personal. She had been fairly certain her callused, unfriendly way of speaking to everyone had given them all the very correct impression that she was not one to confide in people about anything. “Just… watching for the White Rook.”

“Of course,” said Jareth, but even someone of his limited intuition could probably tell that the Prince was lying.

Caerleon threaded her needle and began to stitch up a few cuts that were particularly bad looking. When she was finished with her work, she helped him put his shirt and coat back on so he would be in a minimal amount of discomfort.

“Your Majesty,” said Jareth in the doorway, “I’m sor—I mean… Thank you,” he smiled awkwardly at her.

Caerleon let the smallest, most insincere smile flicker over her lips for a moment, then she shut the door and leaned against it. Finally able to breathe again for the first time, it felt, in several hours.

“You didn’t carry out your father’s wicked, wicked design?!” Marguerite nearly squealed with joy when Caerleon finished telling her what had gone on the night before, “OH!” there were tears in her eyes as she gathered Caerleon’s face in her hands and kissed her once on each cheek, “I knew you were a good girl, I knew you wouldn’t do something so… so divisive and reckless! I knew you were smart, I knew you were good!”

They were sitting in Marguerite’s gardens with a tray of tea and needlepoint. Caerleon had come to see her, without eating breakfast or lunch for the day. She didn’t feel hungry.

“Marguerite, you need to stop celebrating… I didn’t sleep with Jareth. Yes, good show and all—but this, if anything, has tripled my problems, and I’ve yet to find a solution for even one of them!” Caerleon growled and pried her face back from Marguerite, who far from looking deterred seemed to brighten even more at Caerleon’s words.

“My dear,” said the Duchess, “You seem to be growing a backbone, have you noticed?”

“Marguerite… I am now buried in the most monstrous pile of waste ever conceived of by the Gods of every world and people that ever existed. My wife, Lorinda, is pregnant. The father, is not me—I can never be anyone’s father, as I am a woman, which—let’s be honest, is the root of all the evil in my life to begin with-” (Marguerite made a noise as if to protest that point, but Caerleon raised her voice,) “-The father of Lorinda’s child is one of the most dangerous men in the world, right now, and he doesn’t like me—and I’m hiding him in the midst of the hierarchy of a society that he loathes on principle. If anyone finds out about any of this, we will all be torn apart. In addition, I have been disguising myself and going around the palace—there are now quite a few people who are mistakenly thinking that they know someone named Caerla who I’m fairly certain should die. Also, my father is the most powerful man in the world and I can’t even begin to describe all the ways I’ve disobeyed him in the last few weeks.”

Marguerite let a long paused hang in the air after Caerleon’s monologue before she finally said, “…That is something.”

“Yes. It’s something.” Caerleon growled, “…But I have a plan,” she admitted.

Marguerite looked at the Prince sharply, “Really?” she seemed suspicious already, that this would leave her in a compromised position.

“I’m going to run away.”

This declaration was followed by an even longer silence.

Marguerite burst into a quick, nervous round of hysterical laughter then stammered, “You can’t be serious?”

“I am. I’m going to leave, tonight, if I can manage.”

Marguerite’s eyes got wide as she realized that Caerleon was in fact, being very serious indeed.

“…You’re just going to leave. Just like that.”

“Yes.”

“…I see.”

“It strikes me as the most rational course of action.”

“Does it?” Marguerite looked incensed beyond her ability to scream. She was shaking very violently in the two centimeters of space she had outside the ratio of her chair.

“I’ll lie to my father and tell him that I am expectantly pregnant with Jareth’s child, and that in order to avoid detection I’ve made up a story about a holy quest for relics with a few priests from Donlon… He’ll believe me as long as I don’t look him in the eyes.”

“Right.” Said Marguerite stiffly.

“Then, I’ll leave with Noman, tonight… I’ll escape all the immediate danger and very hopefully have time to come up with a more permanent solution.”

“Noman?”

“Yes.”

“…I don’t understand.”

“I’m running away Marguerite. I’ve had enough. I need… I need to…” she sighed, “I will come back.”

“But you see, I’m not so sure you will,” said Marguerite quietly.

“I will come back,” said Caerleon firmly—but her authoritative voice did not work on Marguerite the way it did with other people. “But I can’t stay with all this madness without going mad.”

“Caerleon, you are the madness!” Marguerite said imploringly, “This won’t solve anything! You’ll only complicate the situation further.”

Caerleon shook her head, “I’ve already decided.”

Marguerite looked helplessly at the Prince, “What about… What about Lorinda and Lov and the baby? What about what I told you yesterday?! People will talk, Caerleon-”

“-I’m leaving that particular problem in your hands.”

Marguerite glared at the Prince, “Don’t certain aspects of this plan of yours strike you as being… decidedly… selfish?”

“It’s all I have.”

“Caerleon. You’re not going to be saved from this. Princes don’t save Princesses anymore… they feed them to the dragons in exchange for the monster’s gold! If you want to be rescued, you have to do it yourself.”

“I know all that. But, I am the Prince… and the Princess too, maybe,” said Caerleon quietly, “And I’m as much a coward as any other Prince. I can’t slay the dragon—not even to rescue myself. And since I can’t seem to bargain with it either… I’m running away. If I don’t run, I’ll be eaten.”

Marguerite’s eyes were tearing up, her anger seemed to have ebbed to futility of spirit. “Don’t do this Caerleon… don’t give up so soon.”

“Goodbye,” Caerleon had nothing more to say, and neither did Marguerite, it seemed. The Prince stood up, kissed the Duchess lightly on the forehead and left. She had to prepare for her journey.

Caerleon debated with herself all day about whether it would be a good idea to tell Marguerite about the First King’s Power. It might have made her feel more confident about this ‘running away’ plan. To know that Caerleon was actually trying at something else that could possibly aid her in gaining control of the Kingdom and of her life… Probably not, however. In all likelihood, it would have only made Marguerite more reluctant about the journey. Caerleon and Marguerite did not discuss the history of the Alabaster Dynasty much, but the Prince was fairly certain that Marguerite numbered herself among those who were skeptical about the Legend of the First King’s Deal with the Gods.

Caerleon, however… Had always had a strange curiosity concerning the tale that the priests told of a man who was turned into a Demi-God and given a kingdom by the possession of the mysterious; Serce. Some said it was an ability, a craft far beyond that of usual wizards… others described it as an object that gave the possessor any and every desire of their heart and mind. Caerleon didn’t particularly care who was right, as either way, she got what she wanted; her Kingdom, her peace and the opportunity to stop lying. To show her father that she was perfectly capable of functioning without his strings.

Marguerite would understand one day. After all, if everything went accordingly, then Marguerite’s dream of seeing Caerleon go down in history as not only a just, wise and gracious ruler—but the first woman to sit on the throne, and rightfully, with the respect (or at least grudging submission) and acknowledgement of her right to own Obsidian.

Caerleon decided to leave without proper farewell to anyone—except her father. That had been an awkward conversation.

“Is it done?”

“Yes sire.”

The king seemed to release a breath that had apparently been kept inside his chest for a long time. For a moment he looked at Caerleon’s exhausted and somber face with something that could have been mistaken as pity by someone who didn’t know him as well as Caerleon did. “How long until you disappear from this place?”

“A few hours.”

The King looked very surprised at that, and for a moment—Caerleon was inwardly terrified to recognize a hint of suspicion in his jagged eyes.

“It’s best,” she said firmly, “If I wait until Lorinda announces… It should seem as if I know nothing of her… situation.” She was grasping as straws, “Otherwise, it will be suspicious when she’s far along and I am absent.”

The King did not look fully satisfied with this explanation, but it must have been good enough.

“…Father,” said Caerleon after a moment, a thought had suddenly come to her mind. It didn’t precisely fit in with the plan she had already formed, but it could serve as a reasonable backup, “While I’m gone, I want you to think over a peculiar request.”

“Go on,” said the King, looking more troubled than ever Caerleon had seen him.

“If I have a son, can you permit me to return here… in secret to switch the children, and then… may I vanish? Could I be given your blessing to live outside of all this?”

Bewildered the King stared at her then slowly he said, “Is that what you really want?”

“It’s what we both want,” said Caerlon, “These last few months…” she sighed, “Father, someone at some point, is going to realize what I am. If I give you the son you want, then can I please die, as Leona did? Relieve the burden of this lie from off of your shoulders, and mine…”

The King regarded Caerleon with pronounced silence for several long moments, “I shall think on it, while you are away.”

“Thank you.”

“What is this story? Where am I to tell people you have gone?”

Caerleon smiled in a deceptively amused away, “A holy quest. To find a lost relic. Whichever one sounds to you like the most reasonable.”

“Where are you really going to be?”

“Not far… but hidden. A Women’s House in Portur, perhaps.”

The King grimaced, “I suppose you’ll have to stay with common filth like that?”

“If I want to remain hidden, yes.”

“…then leave.”

She had thought it all through as best she knew how. But it wasn’t until Caerleon was finally stepping into the library to meet Noman that she finally realized that she had become a liar as accomplished as her father. It probably should have been disturbing, but Caerleon felt proud.

Her future seemed brighter than she had ever known it to be. If she found The Serce, then she would have the power she needed to be a proper ruler and herself… and if not than hopefully Lorinda could bare a son, and after Caerleon pretended to switch the babies, her father could be none the wiser as he helped to raise Lorinda and Lov’s baby. All the while, Caerleon could be… gone. Somewhere far away.

It would be better for them if things turned out in such a way.

Except that Marguerite wouldn’t be happy.

Caerleon’s heart sank a little to think of her. This would certainly solve the immediate problems, but in the long run, there was still the gaping wound in the palace… the fact that the whole dynasty could come crashing down, in any given generation, only because there was no son to instill confidence.

The Prince shook of the uncomfortable feeling she got when she thought about the future and decided instead to focus her thoughts on the slim—but unbelievably attractive option of The Serce.

It was almost impossible, but if there was even the slightest chance that it existed to be claimed; Caerleon had to take it.

Gingerly she removed a volume from the shelves, it was falling apart, grey and forgotten as any precious items would be after it hadn’t been cracked in over a decade. Caerleon remembered this book. It was a children’s book of Alabaster History. The very first story in the book was of The Serce.

With her thin pale fingers, Caerleon was careful to separate the pages without ripping them. The old illustration of The First King was faded and water-damaged. You could barely make out where his eyes and his bear met. He was sitting in a giant throne gazing with that blank black face out into the world of the reader. Caerleon turned the page and read the manuscript. It had been altered from the original Old English so that the children could understand.

Eons of terror for as long as the world could remember prevailed in agony, while the humans without king scrambled and crawled over the earth like maggots on a plump decrepit corpse. Before The First King, there was only Ves, lowly on the earth with his brethren, but The Celestials touched Ves and gave him visions of salvation and a world of a million little kings, and one great King who commanded the fear and power of all the nations. This Great King was Ves. His visions came from the moment the sun slept to the dawn for eleven days without rest before he left for the mountains to seek out wisdom and mercy from The Celestials.

In the mountains Ves found The Serce. He was guided by The Celestials to the bed of The Serce, were the power slept since its creation growing mightier as the years lapsed. Ves wished to take The Serce and use its power to create the world of a million kings.

“If you desire my power, then you should be willing to give me everything you know in exchange.” The Serce spoke to Ves in the voice of lightning.

“All that I have and am is yours.” Ves bowed to The Serce and its power came into him. The First King was born and ruled for a hundred years before The Serce left him to return to The Celestials.

Caerleon’s however many greats grandfather. The First King.

“I will not be the last.” She murmured to herself.

“Your majesty? Are you prepared?” Noman whispered to her as he came up to her shoulder.

“No. But we should leave.”